August 13, 2007
Name: Josie Salzman
Posting date: 8/13/07
Husband: returned from Iraq
Hometown: Menomenie, WI
Milblog url: lifeinacrackerbox.blogspot.com
I sit tonight in the kitchen of the Fisher House just staring at the TV while trying to collect my thoughts. The country has been informed that the Army has realized there is a need for more mental health professionals to aid soldiers returning from war with PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). They claim to be adding two hundred new employees to help combat the never-ending war that remains in our loved ones' minds. I wish more than anything that tonight I could take a deep breath, relax, and fall asleep with the confidence that our military is taking the proper steps to ensure my family is able to heal from the violence we have encountered.
Unfortunately, that's not an option.
One of the first nights I had with my husband after his injury will forever be burned into my mind. He had been in an excruciating amount of pain the entire evening. It was still early in his hospital stay so the doctors had yet to find a pain cocktail that his body responded to. Just like the evening before, the nurse entered the room and handed J.R. a cup filled to the top with pills. Desperate to make the pain subside for a few hours, J.R. swallowed them in one giant mouthful. An hour later he was drifting off to sleep.
I started making my bed for the night after I was sure he was sleeping. This would be my second night of sleeping in the foldout chair that I would soon learn to hate. I had no more than crawled under the covers when J.R. sat bolt upright in bed. "Get them off me. Get them off me now. The bugs, they're all over me, get them off. They're in the bed. Make them go away."
Unsure of what he was talking about, I jumped out of bed and rushed to calm him down. After a grueling twenty minutes he was able to once again close his eyes. It didn't last. Again his mind took over in his sleep. This time he felt as if someone was in the room and he was under attack. He awoke panicked and sweat-soaked. I sat on his bed and held him in my arms. I promised him that if he just closed his eyes he would be able to sleep and that everything would be fine. I was in the room and I was going nowhere. But everything wasn't fine. No more than an hour after he closed his eyes the terror began. On this night J.R. would relive the entire accident.
"Are you ready? Hey, I'm talking to you. Are you ready to go? We have to get on the road. It's time to head back south." J.R. was mumbling in his sleep.
"J.R. what are you talking about. We aren't going anywhere. Go back to sleep."
We went back and forth for a while before I realized what was going on. He was prepping his truck for convoy and in his mind it was December 19th. His nurse assured me that this was normal, and that I should just keep an eye on him. I listened as he spoke to his men as the convoy went down the road. He mumbled so much I had a hard time understanding. Until they hit the EFP.
"Hey. Hey guys... guys I can't feel my arm. Guys my arm. My arm. My arm is gone. Guys help me! My arm is gone! Help! Help! I need a tourniquet! I'm bleeding out. It's gone. Holy shit my arm is gone!"
By this point J.R. was screaming at the top of his lungs. He was sitting upright in bed. I bolted out the door and yelled for the nurse. Together we muscled J.R. back down on the bed. He was thrashing. At this point more nurses were filling the room. His screams could be heard throughout all of Ward 57. I retreated to my bed and allowed the nurses to help my husband. I pulled my legs up to my chest and tried to ignore my husband's screams.
"Stop stepping on my arm. It hurts. Give me pain killers. You're stepping on my arm. Get off of it. My hand. My hand. My hand is gone! God damn it I told you get off my arm!"
The nurses were calm as they helped him fight through the night terror. They played the roll of the army medics, telling him that he was going to be fine. Helping him fight through the pain. Then all of a sudden came relief. It came in the form of a shot. The medicine entered his body and within minutes the terror was over. He lay in his bed. Calm. I sat on the chair and cried. I cried for my husband, for the pain that he was in. I cried for our dreams that were now garbage. I cried out of exhaustion.
The next morning J.R. remembered nothing. He didn't understand why my eyes were so puffy and I was so tired. That same morning I walked out to the front desk and asked that my husband meet with a mental health specialist and be screened for PTSD. I waited a week and still no doctor came to speak with him. I put in another request for J.R. to be seen by a doctor. One more week and still nothing. My manners were gone. I threw a fit demanding that he be seen by someone from the psych department. They sent a doctor -- in training. We saw him once. ONCE. As if one visit would fix his mind and he could continue living his life in perfect harmony.
I continued to ask and I continued to receive the same answer: "The psych department is stretched very thin and they can't make it to every patient." It took another week, but finally, a doctor (we'll call him Bob) appeared one morning from the psych department. However Bob came right in the middle of J.R.'s morning therapy session of PT and OT. After explaining to the him that every morning my husband had therapy on the third floor from 9 until 11, he agreed to stop by later in the afternoon. He never did. Instead Bob once again came by the next morning while my husband was at therapy. One more time I gently reminded him that every morning from 9-11 J.R. was unavailable. It finally clicked with him after about a week, and for the first time since his injury, J.R. would be able to speak with a therapist on a regular basis. Or so I thought.
We saw Bob a few times. Then J.R. went outpatient and we could no longer meet with Bob. Once again the war for a therapist began. After a few more weeks of phone calls and digging I landed J.R. an appointment. The appointment was at 11 so we ran from physical therapy up to the doctor's office. We were no more than two minutes late, but the doctor was gone. He told the woman that appeared to be some kind of an assistant that he had left, and to pass the message on to us. Furious, I stormed back home with J.R. After that, I gave up. There were other battles to fight and I was running out of hot air.
We were fine for a few weeks. And then the dreams returned. Constantly waking up in the middle of the night in fear that an IED had exploded outside the window. For weeks he was permanently attached to me at night. And although I usually don't mind to snuggle up at night, it is very different when your husband has the death grip on you while you're trying to sleep. I was exhausted. I no longer had the help of the nurses to care for my husband. His memory was non-existent with the meds he was taking, so it was almost as if I was taking care of a small child. A very stubborn small child with a lot of needs. He couldn't dress himself, could barely feed himself, and still needed help taking a shower. I was so wrapped up in taking care of him that I completely forgot to take care of myself. Then the fights began.
Once again I started asking for a therapist. This time, it only took a week. We saw him twice. Things didn't go so well. After our second and final appointment I returned to our room feeling defeated. Not once had any member of the staff here asked if I was OK. If there was anything that I needed. How I was handling my husband's injury. I was realizing that I was no longer able to handle the stress of taking care of J.R. For months I had been bottling up every concern, every fear, and every frustration inside. I had a break down. Two weeks later family arrived, and I was able to leave and go home for a week of alone time.
Since that week things have been a million times better. J.R. has been able to cut back on his meds, which has made a world of difference. I now see the man I married shining through the drug haze. The fights are less often and less intense. And we are able to realize when a little time apart is needed. It's amazing what taking care of yourself for a while can do for your mental health.
It is also important to remember that even though my husband may be the one that lives with the memory of the explosion, we all live with the memory of the healing process. This war has taken its toll on me as well. And sometimes even I need professional help to deal with our new life.
My whole point to this long-winded story is that two hundred added employees isn't enough. There are over 25,000 soldiers that have been wounded in Iraq. 25,000. Just to help the wounded alone, there are not enough employees.
Now add in the thousands of soldiers returning from war and remember it is not just the soldiers that need help. The families need to be included. There are wives, husbands, mothers, and fathers that deploy with a soldier. It's hard.
I see the army putting a band-aid on our veterans. A fresh coat of paint to cover the walls. A few added employees to make the press happy. But it's time to peel the band-aid off and realize the cut needs stitches in order to heal. This war has been going on for years and the end has yet to be in sight. There will continue to be fatalities and injuries. This is the reality of war.